Working With the Enemy (16 page)

‘To do your one job,’ she said. She didn’t dare to hope that this might mean progress. ‘No wonder you’re such a pain in the ass, Heath.’

‘They should be able to handle it,’ he said wryly.

‘While you take broader control of your business portfolio, which now includes a country estate?’

‘I’m only sorry it’s taken so long,’ he said, ‘but it takes time to find the right person.’

‘And less than an hour to undo a full year’s work,’ Bronte remarked as she glanced over her shoulder to where the flames were still hungrily licking up the remains of the barn.

‘We’ll get over it,’ Heath promised.

‘We?’

‘You and me. We’ll get over this. I promise—’

‘Together?’

He placed another call to the police. ‘Go and hurry them along, will you, while I bring these lads out?’

‘Don’t take any unnecessary risks, Heath.’

‘Thanks for the advice.’ He flashed a rueful grin. ‘I think I’ll be okay. And if I’m not, I’ll call for you.’

A faint smile touched Bronte’s red-rimmed eyes. ‘I’ll be right back,’ she said, starting to run.

He wanted a chance to speak to the boys without anyone being present. He wanted to see them punished and for them to make reparation for what they’d done, but he wanted them to know there was another way—if they chose to take it. He wanted them to spread the word when they went inside that there was someone who understood the poison that drove them and who had the antidote to it, and that this same individual would be running the boot camp at Hebers Ghyll.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

H
EATH
worked like a Trojan alongside the officers to clear the debris and make everywhere safe, while the people who could stayed on to help. Bronte was touched to find Quentin in the kitchen making tea and sandwiches for everyone, and didn’t even mind that he had taken command of her beloved Aga.

‘I’ve never had such a huge piece of kit to play with before. Or so many interesting new friends in uniform.’

‘Quentin,’ Bronte scolded, knowing that if anyone could bring a smile to people’s faces when they most needed it, it was this man.

‘What’s wrong?’ Heath said, drawing Bronte aside discreetly. ‘You’ve been so brave up to now. Don’t crumple on me, Bronte.’

‘I’m not crumpling,’ she said, pushing him away. ‘I’m just watching you and Quentin, and all the people milling round the kitchen, and wishing it could stay like this for ever. I know,’ she said through gritted teeth before Heath had chance to speak. ‘I know I’m dreaming again.’

He was too tired to argue. Everyone was tired and battle scarred, but he had to admit Quentin had come up trumps, making people laugh as he doled out mugs of tea and coffee, and the biggest, thickest sandwiches, which everyone professed to love. But it was to Bronte that most of the praise was due, Heath reflected as he watched her moving between people, offering her own brand of encouragement. She had worked tirelessly inside and outside the house, clearing up the mess, and offering words of reassurance, creating such a feeling of warmth and camaraderie that everyone wanted to stay on late to help out.

‘You should try one of Quentin’s sandwiches,’ she said, distracting him by plonking a huge platter in front of his nose. ‘They’re really great.’

‘And he’s used to having them made for him,’ Heath said, selecting one. ‘Quentin’s partner is a dab hand in the kitchen—with a penchant for gourmet food.’

‘Lucky Quentin.’

‘Lucky me,’ he said.

They were too busy to speak after that. Bronte didn’t go home with the rest of the crowd, but stayed on to help Quentin and Heath clean up the kitchen. It was like the day after a party when everything was set to rights … except there’d been no party. And now there was no barn, she thought wistfully, staring out of the window at the heap of jagged timbers and blackened ash.

‘Don’t go home tonight,’ Heath murmured, coming up behind her.

She turned in his arms. I can’t go through this again, she thought. The others had left the kitchen and all any of them were seeking tonight was comfort, but where would comfort lead with Heath? She wondered what to say to him, how to phrase what she had to say to him—to a man who had led so much of the salvage work today. I’m not in the mood, sounded ugly. I don’t want to spend the night with you, would be a lie.

‘I’m not going to let you go home to an empty cottage,’ Heath said. ‘I want you to stay here with me, Bronte.’

‘I don’t think that’s a very good idea.’

Heath’s smoke-blackened face creased in his trademark grin. ‘I’ll run you a bath—’

‘Heath, I—’

‘And I’ll call you when it’s ready.’ She could argue, or she could accept Heath’s kindness for once. She could soak in soapy bubbles, which right now seemed an irresistible option.

She listened to Heath bounding up the stairs and marvelled at his energy. After everything they’d been through she couldn’t have felt more exhausted. She supposed it was the knowledge that everything everyone had worked so hard to achieve had gone up in flames. What was the point—?

She was so wrong, Bronte thought as she caught sight of Quentin’s neatly folded drying cloth hanging on the Aga rail. It was such a little thing amongst the monumental happenings of the night, but it showed Quentin cared. So many people had cared tonight, and if all that goodwill could be harvested there wasn’t the slightest possibility that Herbers Ghyll would go to the wall.

Heath didn’t call downstairs, he came downstairs to make sure she hadn’t changed her mind. ‘And I’m going to stand outside the door to make sure you’re all right,’ he said, ‘and I won’t take any argument. You just yell if you need me.’

‘But you’re tired too,’ she said, gazing up at Heath’s grimy face. ‘You must be. You go and clean up—or aren’t you planning to wash tonight?’

‘It’ll keep,’ he said. ‘When I know you’re safely tucked in bed I’ll take a shower and clean this dirt off then.’

‘Thank you,’ she said softly, meeting Heath’s gaze.

‘There’s no need to thank me,’ he told her as he opened the bathroom door. ‘And there’s no hurry, either. You take your time.’

The hard man had laid out some towels for her, and also one of his robes and a T-shirt, both of which would drown her. She appreciated the gesture more than she could say. He’d even filled the bath with warm, soapy water. She climbed in and sank beneath the surface, wondering if she would ever be clean again.

She washed the filth from her hair and her face, and then took one last quick soak, conscious that Heath must be equally exhausted, however he appeared. Getting out of the bath, she dried herself, and put on the T-shirt and robe, wrapping her hair in a towel.

Heath was waiting as she came out of the bathroom, and, putting his arm around her shoulders, he led her into his bedroom. She was swallowed up in the huge double bed. The pillows were soft and the sheets held the faint scent of sunshine and lavender. He tucked the sheets up to her chin, and kissed her forehead. ‘Sleep,’ he murmured.

She didn’t need any encouragement.

She woke in the night to find Heath lying beside her.
Wearing boxers.
She smiled. He was holding her in his arms. ‘You cried out,’ he said, stroking her hair back from her face.

‘Sorry.’

‘Don’t be.’ Kissing her again, he drew her close until she fell asleep wrapped in his arms.

Heath had gone by the time she woke up, leaving Bronte to wonder if she’d been dreaming. She’d certainly overslept, she realised, glancing groggily at the clock. And she had work to do.

Heaving herself out of bed, still half asleep, she staggered to the bathroom for a wake-up shower. She wasn’t worried about where Heath was. He’d be here at Hebers Ghyll setting things right. There was nothing more certain in her mind.

When she came downstairs the yard was full of builders’ vans and it seemed everyone from the village had come to help. And driving towards them was the biggest truck Bronte had ever seen, with huge prefabricated wooden sides and struts fixed onto the back of it with ropes. ‘What’s happening?’ she exclaimed with excitement, bursting through the door.

‘Come and see,’ Colleen cried, grabbing hold of Bronte’s arm and dragging her along.

Heath was standing on the girders putting a heavy beam into place with the boys who hadn’t been involved in starting the fire helping him. Apparently oblivious to the cold, he was wearing his old worn ripped jeans and a tight-fitting top that could have been any colour it was so blackened by grime and dust, but he was setting a good example to the boys with his hard hat, work gloves, and steel-capped boots.

Bronte felt so proud as she stared up at him. Everything had come full circle to its rightful place. Everything they had ever talked about flashed through her head—everything they’d ever done together—everything they’d learned about each other. And while that circle had been turning and becoming whole again, she thought about the journey they’d travelled. And the fun they’d had—the rows too, not to mention the frantic, fabulous sex … as well as the slow, sensual love-making. Right up to last night when Heath had held her in his arms as she slept, and had just been there for her, watching over her, silent and protective.

As if he felt her staring up at him, Heath looked down. He hadn’t shaved this morning. Heath was a man on a mission—a man in his most deliciously unreconstructed state. Their eyes met briefly. It was all Heath had time for before he hefted the beam into place.

‘I’m going to go and get breakfast started,’ Bronte told Colleen, who was a gem for bringing her clean clothes from the cottage.

‘Lunch,’ Colleen said with a laugh. ‘It’s almost noon.’

‘Why didn’t you wake me?’

‘Heath said you should sleep—and everyone agreed. No one worked harder than you last night, Bronte—and no one blames you for sleeping in. No one lost more,’ Colleen added when Bronte started to argue.

‘Heath lost more. You lost more. I don’t think I lost anything,’ Bronte murmured as she turned to take one last look at Heath directing his team. ‘We’ll keep the excess hay,’ she told Colleen as they walked back to the kitchen. ‘We won’t sell it as we’d planned to—instead we’ll use it to restock the new barn.’

Heath was right, Bronte thought as she continued explaining her plans. All businesses suffered setbacks, but what had happened here, however dramatic and irreversible it had seemed at the time, was still something they could get round.

She was back, Heath thought, rejoicing as he towelled down roughly after his shower. Bronte was back, and firing on all cylinders. He’d seen it in her eyes when she came to watch the new barn being raised. She had recovered her fighting sprit. He’d felt it then, and he felt it now, that huge surge of something he now accepted was love. He’d fought it, ignored it, scorned it, and trampled it—whenever he’d got half a chance. But now he craved it. He wanted Bronte. He wanted Bronte to love him as he loved her, and he wanted to build a lot more than a barn with her.

The fire had been a terrible disaster, but out of it had come a reckoning of things that were important in life—things that could be rebuilt, regenerated, or reclaimed, and those that could never be. If Bronte had been harmed in any way he would never have forgiven himself. If the worst had happened, which he wouldn’t even think about, no amount of determination in the world would bring her back to him. And now they had got to know each other all over again he doubted Bronte’s nature could be ruined by anything—even him, because there was steel beneath that quirky daintiness, and fire beneath those caring, dreamy eyes.

He had even shaved. Leaning on the sink, he stared at himself in the mirror, wondering if this new fierce passion would be as easy to turn into victory as expressing powerful feelings with his fists had been. He thought not. Bronte was tricky. She could never be called predictable. But he was ready for her. Straightening up, he reached for a towel and patted his temporarily smooth cheeks. His thick hair refused to dry however much he towelled it. He slicked it back roughly with his hands. Time was a-wasting. He fastened his shirt as he headed downstairs, though, unusually, he paused to take a deep breath outside the kitchen door.

Blind to anything else in the room he only saw Bronte standing in front of the Aga. Apron tied round her waist and knotted in front, she was dressed in purple leggings and a flimsy top. The flip-flops and toe rings had been reinstated and her hair was hanging in crazy tangles to her waist. She had never looked lovelier—though that might have had something to do with the huge tray of delicious-looking food she was holding in hands—tiny hands—currently concealed beneath huge black oven mitts.

‘I love you,’ he announced, walking straight up to her.

Taking the gloves and the tray in one slick move, he put them aside. And then, because he was so tall and she was so tiny, he knelt at her feet holding both her tiny hands in his. ‘I love you more than anything in the world.’

He only realised when he heard the raucous applause that they weren’t alone, but nothing was going to distract him from his purpose. He waited for the noise to die down, and then he asked her clearly and steadily, ‘Will you marry me, Bronte?’ She hadn’t said a word up to now, and he was in no way confident of the outcome.

Then she knelt too. Or maybe her legs gave way with shock.

‘That wasn’t supposed to happen,’ he said, looking down. ‘I’m supposed to be the supplicant here.’

‘Better we face each other for this,’ she said. ‘I love you too,’ she said simply. ‘I’ve always loved you, Heath, and I always will.’

‘But you haven’t answered my question,’ he pointed out.

‘Patience,’ she told him. ‘I’m just getting to that.’ Breathless silence surrounded them, which was released in a shiver of sighs when she added, ‘Heath, that was the most romantic proposal any girl could receive.’

‘And?’ he demanded impatiently.

‘Of course I’ll marry you,’ Bronte whispered as the kitchen exploded in a frenzy of cheers.

He wanted to give Bronte something very special to show how much he loved her—but what to give the girl who had everything? Bronte had nothing in a material sense, but she didn’t want anything. Nothing he could buy her with money would mean a thing—she’d rather have a good load of quality manure to spread on her precious vegetable garden. He’d had to think laterally and go that extra mile …

And so he did. Swinging out of the Jeep just before Christmas, he dragged Bronte into his arms. They were getting married at the end of the week, so his timing had never been more important.

‘Okay, Mr Mysterious,’ she said, trying to peer inside the cab. ‘What are you hiding in there?’